Indoctrination
by annuscka
Summary: “I’d like to talk some more with you, if you do not mind. About your brother.” In which Albus Dumbledore feels the need to have a very unpleasant conversation with Rabastan Lestrange. Includes Rabastan, Dumbledore, Rodolphus and some Bellatrix.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This chapter is the first - and by far the longest - part of three. It is set in the same universe as "Comfort", though they have very little to do with each other otherwise. Well - enjoy!

A big thank you to **Diabólica** for the very helpful beta-ing!

**Indoctrination – Part I: Dumbledore**

_Hogwarts, December 1970_

"We have a problem," Pomona said severely.

"We do?" Albus asked, folding the Daily Prophet carefully as he studied his Herbology Professor's troubled face. It was rare to have Pomona in his office about a student (for he assumed she wasn't worried about how her Mantigores were coming on). Her Hufflepuffs were usually good-natured and loyal enough to solve whatever issues arose in their house among themselves. It was much more common to have Minerva storming in with a Gryffindor and a Slytherin in tow, Horace strolling apologetically behind them.

"Yes, we do," she sighed. "Rabastan Lestrange."

Albus nodded.

"Ah."

Rabastan Lestrange. He had hoped that this could have been avoided, even in times like these.

"How bad is it?"

"Well..." Pomona said, wringing her hands as though she was unused to not having anything wriggly and rapidly growing between them. "I'm not sure, exactly, but I was called down to the common room earlier to break up a rather violent duel between him and Nathaniel Smith. The third this week," she added as if to emphasise. "It has been bad for the past weeks and exploded two days ago when Nathaniel removed Rabastan from the house team."

"And did Mr Smith have good reason for doing so?" Albus asked calmly.

"He seems to think so, and the rest of the team seems to be behind him on it," she said with a frown. "Apparently, Rabastan has been interacting so much with the Slytherins that the team doesn't trust him playing them in the next match. It's Quidditch season, feelings running high… I'm sure it'll die down," she finished uncertainly, looking at him as if she wished that he would shrug and tell her that boys with wands would always be boys with wands and little self-control. Unfortunately, Albus doubted that that was the case. A few decades ago maybe, but these days house rivalry had become a mirror for far larger and uglier things.

"I see," he sighed, feeling old. "And are there any particular Slytherins that Mr Lestrange has been interacting with?"

Pomona shifted slightly.

"Well… yes, I suppose that there are. Bellatrix Black. George Wilkes. Lucius Malfoy. Dareios and Alexandra Yaxley..."

"So, in short, his brother's old friends have adopted him?" Albus concluded with another sigh. In another time – say, a few decades ago – at least half of this group of highly intelligent students would not have been unadvisable company for anyone, but these merciless times were rapidly changing the once quite rational Slytherin house.

"It would seem so, yes. Oh, Albus," Pomona burst out, disconsolate. "I don't know when it happened, but suddenly he's changed - I hardly recognise him. Of course he is free to choose his friends, but I don't know why on Earth – and now, after all these years… He never seemed like he believed in… all of that!" she finished uncertainly, clearly doing her best to remain neutral.

"Perhaps he does, perhaps not," Albus sighed. "But he is a sixteen-year-old boy with a very charismatic older brother, whom I think he loves deeply and who is the only dependable family he has, such as that is. That is probably what matters the most to him right now."

Pomona sighed in agreement, biting her lower lip. Once more it was clear to Albus that, even though every teacher and especially every Head of House cared deeply for their students, Pomona had always been the one to show it most openly.

"He is here, I presume?" Albus finally said, breaking the silence.

"Yes, outside," she nodded.

"Let him in, please Pomona."

She nodded again and waved her wand at the door. Rabastan Lestrange seemed to have been eavesdropping and almost lost his balance as the door swung open. A brief shadow of embarrassment swept over his face, but Albus sadly noticed that it didn't take long before the boy had rearranged his features into a contemptuous and superior sneer greatly reminiscent of his older brother. These days he was almost as tall as Rodolphus but with a much smaller frame, a build that up until a few days ago had made him the star Seeker of the Hufflepuff house team. He didn't walk with quite as much confidence and didn't look Albus quite as hard in the eye as Rodolphus would have done, but it was still clearly a different Rabastan Lestrange than the scrawny boy who had been living in his brother's shadow for his first five years at school but who now, in his sixth year, had taken a confident step into the light.

"Do you know why you are here, Mr Lestrange?" Albus began calmly, not expecting much of a reply. The boy shrugged.

"That would be because you were involved in a duel with Mr Smith," Albus continued lightly. "As you well know, duelling is not allowed outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom."

"The blood traitor started it, not me!" the boy snapped angrily, arms crossed over his chest.

"So I don't see why I'm here, not him!"

"Mr Smith will be spoken to in due course, but at the moment he is in the hospital wing where Madam Pomfrey is correcting the size of his ears, as I'm sure you know."

The boy did a bad job of hiding his smirk, and Albus frowned.

"I do not see anything particularly amusing in this situation, Mr Lestrange."

With considerable difficulty, the boy managed to swallow his smirk and put on a more neutral expression.

"So what'll happen now, then?"

"You will receive two months' detention. Mr Filch needs help with a few archive chores."

Rabastan rolled his eyes.

"Right." He began to rise from his chair. "If that's all…"

"It is not, in fact, all," Albus said calmly. "If you would be so kind as to sit down, Mr Lestrange."

With a glare, the boy dropped back into the chair, fidgeting with something in his pocket.

"What, then?"

"I'd like to talk some more with you, if you do not mind. About your brother."

This was not a talk Albus was looking forward to. But he had long had the feeling that it was needed, and tonight's events had told him in no uncertain terms that the time was long overdue.

Rodolphus Lestrange had always been a heavy influence on his younger brother. It had come naturally and tragically through the early death of the boys' mother and their father's heavy-handed attempts to raise them, keener on not letting his career as a world-renowned Herbologist suffer than on being a reliable parental presence. Given the amount of time Reynard Lestrange spent abroad on his famous expeditions, Albus had long suspected that the only adult at the Lestrange Estate in the past years had been a precocious Rodolphus, forced to grow up far too fast in order to raise both himself and his brother. And he had done a fine job – with Rabastan. It was Rodolphus himself who was the problem, one just as pressing now as when he himself had attended Hogwarts.

"Of course you do," the boy snapped. "You and everyone else on the bloody planet!"

"Is that so?"

No reply.

"What do these masses of people tend to say that you seem certain that I would echo? It would do for you to tell me, so we can avoid tedious repetitiveness."

The boy gave him another glare before answering.

"That he's bad news. Dangerous," Rabastan added in a mocking tone. "That he's brainwashing everyone."

Well, at least "everyone else on the bloody planet" was a very astute judge of character, Albus thought to himself. And Rodolphus Lestrange had never struck him as particularly difficult to analyse; most of his motivations felt obvious to Albus. Having had to be the adult at home from a young age, he most likely had only ever felt able to relax from the responsibilities trust upon him while at school where others kept eyes on his brother. Lacking a parent with boundaries to test he chose to act out at school instead, many a summer worth of pent up anger and frustration causing his outbursts to be far more unpredictable and violent than those of most teenagers. This streak had only become more prominent with age, and, as it had began to manifest itself in the field of politics – more dangerous. 'Brainwashing' was certainly one term for what he and Evan Rosier had spent much of their time at school doing - both through bullying and through what Albus readily admitted was very clever rhetoric.

"It can hardly be denied that your brother has some very loud political opinions," Albus said calmly. Rodolphus also had an outlet for them, having inherited the family publishing house. He had immediately set out to slowly change the voice of the Daily Prophet; the process was almost seamless and Albus feared that the day the Wizarding public realised just how slanted their press had become, it would be far too late.

"So just because most people here don't want to hear what he has to say, I have to turn my back on him too?" came the prompt, almost furious answer. It struck Albus that while both the boys' father and Rodolphus had been Slytherins to the core, raw ambition evident in everything they did, Rabastan showed few signs of having inherited any of it. His defining trait was indeed his Hufflepuff loyalty, a trait that seemed to know no bounds when it came to his brother. It was not particularly surprising given his family history, but it did pose a considerable problem.

"Loyalty is a virtue," Albus began, "but just as bravery can morph into recklessness, loyalty can make one both blind and deaf to important matters. Loyalty is closely related to love, which is the most dangerous power of them all. You do not have to blindly agree with your brother just because you love him."

"I don't. I agree with him because he's right," Rabastan answered, just as prompt as before. Rabastan's gaze was growing steadier. "Just because you hate him doesn't mean he's been manipulating me!"

"I do not hate your brother, Mr Lestrange," Albus said with emphasis. Although "everyone else on the bloody planet" probably did, he thought to himself. "I may not agree with him, but he is certainly free to believe what he feels is right. As are you, but I wish for you to make an informed decision."

"It's not like you lot do anything else than shove propaganda down our throats," Rabastan snapped. "Can't expect that there won't be people who see it for what it is."

"I like to think of it as offering a differing viewpoint."

"The only one, more like it – it's not like we get to hear any other opinions, is it?"

He had heard that argument before. All the times he had been accused of forcing his own political beliefs on his students, all the pure-blood parents that his clear non-discrimination stance had angered over the years – oh yes, he had heard it all before. Theoretically, he might have wanted to give them some credit, but there was simply no discussing or debating with Tom. It did grieve him that it would have to come to this and probably to far worse things before it was over.

"I shall never outlaw civilised discussion under my roof, but it can not be accompanied by discrimination and bullying," he said, kind but stern, knowing the boy would grasp the undertones about his brother's school career.

"As long as we don't discriminate in your direction, right? Telling Mudbloods off –"

" There will never be need for that word, Mr Lestrange."

" – gets you detention and a night with the Headmaster," Rabastan continued, seemingly unperturbed but his colouring nevertheless slightly more scarlet, "but kicking people off the Quidditch team because of who their brother is and who they're mates with, that's fine!" Clearly, they were leaving the land of general politics and entering more personal territory.

"I take it that you do not agree with Mr Smith's decision?"

Rabastan jeered, eyes just as fiery as those of any other Quidditch player who felt scorned.

"It's just more proof of how it's all right to hate some people for who they're related to, but you can't hate others because that's discrimination."

"It is never right to hate and discriminate against anyone, regardless of one's reasons for it," Albus said calmly. "If that is what has happened here, it shall be dealt with accordingly."

"Of course it bloody well is! They all hate me for who I am and for what my brother thinks, but the minute I say something they don't like I've got the whole house – and the Gryffindors too – down my throat!"

"That can be the unfortunate result of being a minority faced with an angry majority. Not unlike what Muggle-borns and half-bloods face every day," Albus said pointedly. He didn't for a moment doubt that the boy at times indeed had it rough in Hufflepuff house because of his heritage. There had been Lestranges in houses other than Slytherin before, if sparingly, but the reputation his brother seemed dead-set on giving the whole family had efficiently made people forget that.

The boy scoffed even louder.

"It's not the same. It'll never be the same."

"Why not? Do you not believe that they have the right to a peaceful existence at their school, just as you do?"

"It's different when you're not here as much by right as by politics. Most of them would never even have heard of us if your lot hadn't dragged them here. They don't belong the same way! They can go back to the Muggles, to their world – I've only got this one!"

"But the Muggle-borns who attend Hogwarts have made this world theirs as much as it is yours. Many of them have very few connections to the Muggle world and would find it very difficult indeed to return."

"Not my problem," the boy said stubbornly. "They have a choice. People like me – us – don't."

"I am not so sure about that," Albus said calmly. "I would imagine it just as possible, though surely difficult – for a pure-blood wizard to adjust to Muggle society as it is for a young Muggle-born to do the reverse. Perhaps it ought to be done, in order to spread understanding of the hardships these children and young adults face."

"You'd want to go and live like a Muggle?" the boy asked in disbelief, a look of distaste clear on his face.

"It might certainly be an interesting experiment, yes."

"Well, no one's stopping you. Those who want to join the Muggles can go ahead for all I care, but they don't need to bring our entire world down with them!"

"Do you believe enriching our culture would be bringing it down?"

"It's pollution. Half the purebloods at Hogwarts don't know their own traditions anymore because of how many Mudblood and even Muggle ways have weaselled their way in!"

"I find that highly unlikely," Albus said calmly. "As long as Wizarding children are interested in and able to perform and learn magic, I see no cause to worry about the survival of our culture."

"If you cared about the old ways, you'd realise that there's cause for concern!"

"I do care about tradition, Mr Lestrange," Albus said a bit more sharply. "But tradition alone is never cause to forcibly keep that tradition alive – some run their course and become obsolete. I have seen many such traditions die out in my long life, and I do not grieve the loss. Those that I cherish, I make a point of keeping. And there may very well be other traditions worth importing, be they Muggle or foreign. Many such traditions make up the culture you so cherish, after all."

"Maybe, but we don't need to 'import' any more now."

"You think we are all set, in need of no further development?"

"Yes," the boy said confidently.

"That is a bold statement, Mr Lestrange."

The boy shook his head.

"Hardly. Obviously, we're more fit to rule than they are."

"There is nothing 'obvious' about such complicated matters as world domination," Albus said sternly.

"How can you say that?" the boy asked, seeming honestly baffled. "When we have magic and they don't?"

"There is a lot more to power than magical power, Mr Lestrange. The Muggles have ways of controlling and grasping power that may differ from ours, but they are quite effective and can be just as terrible as the Unforgivable Curses."

As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn't brought up the Unforgivables. The alarming amount of reports of a spiking interest in these the most terrible and to some most fascinating branches of magic had begun to dwindle, but he didn't for a second think that it had faded completely. It was always there to an extent – traditionally, it had been the Imperius Curse that fascinated most. Young, brilliant but idealistic minds painting the world in far too broad strokes, blowing right past empathy and decency in their quest for efficiency and perfection – a weapon of total control was bound to appeal to them. He had made efforts to put dampers on the increasing fascination - introducing the subjects earlier, at an age when the students were still unable to perform them. To younger students, the curses certainly made a horrifying classroom experience – something that, perhaps cruelly, was intended. The dark glamour that traditionally surrounded the Unforgivables had to be removed at all costs, and this was a far more difficult task with older teenagers like NEWT Defence Against the Dark Arts students, who already in many cases, had a fascination not only for defensive spells but also for methods of attack.

His dampening efforts had worked for the most part, but a small group of students remained unimpressed and had moved on to experiment with the Cruciatus Curse instead. Repeated scans of the Restricted Section proved that literature on Cruciatus was in constant use, but who was using the books remained unknown. Fortunately, the curse was even more difficult to master – almost impossible for even the most ambitious student – but it could be mastered, especially the student or students in question, as he suspected, had outside help.

"What kind of ways would those be?" Rabastan asked. "There's no way they could have anything to rival B – Professor Barkley, I mean, the way he showed us the Cruciatus." The look of poorly disguised panic on his face freely betrayed that that most certainly had not been the name he had been meaning to say.

Albus sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He would not have needed the initial to know which of Rabastan's friends had managed to master it. He had suspected, but having such suspicions confirmed was never especially pleasant. Most likely it had not been practised on another human being – unless they had found the complicated array of spells that blocked the Ministry from tracing Unforgivable violence directed at humans. It hardly mattered. The intent was already there. It was one thing for a misguided idealist to desire control through Imperius, but quite another to wish to gain it through pain. And there were many magical ways to inflict pain, but what made the Cruciatus an Unforgivable was how it also demanded enjoyment from its caster. There could never be any doubt about the intention as soon as Cruciatus was involved because it simply didn't work if the intentions were anything less than varying levels of sadism.

Because of its nature, the Cruciatus Curse appealed to a very small number of students. But though it was a small group, it was a force to be reckoned with – far more dangerous and much more difficult to monitor than the usual loudmouthed teenage idealists. Unlike the idealists, this group of students was not very keen on the spotlight, at least not for their darkest projects. But even without accidentally dropped initials and evidence of library habits, everyone knew largely who they were – a select, very well-bred part of Slytherin house. Students who had good names and oceans of money and influence and, most dangerously of all, were bored. Everyone knew who they were, but it was difficult to catch them out and prove any wrongdoing - just as difficult as it had been two decades earlier. And without proof they continued their experiments, becoming more efficient and able as time wore on.

"I assure you, there are more terrible things," Albus finally said firmly, looking up once more only to find the boy fidgeting in his pocket again, hastily stopping when Albus spoke. "And, if you permit us straying from the subject of Muggle warfare technology for a moment, I would like to impress on you that the Unforgivables are never to be used outside an academic setting. I am sure Professor Barkley firmly pointed this out before his demonstration that you seem to have found so impressive, but I nevertheless wish to emphasise it."

"'Course he did," Rabastan muttered, doing his best to avoid Albus' steady gaze.

"Very good. I trust, then, that you know that the use of any of the Unforgivables against a human being is enough to earn the caster a life sentence in Azkaban? That is a fate I do not wish upon any of my students, past or present."

"Of course I do," the boy replied in a stronger voice. "And I'm not about to use them! I'm just saying that the fact that we can do it easily solves the question of who should rule."

"You have my opinion on that," Albus said calmly. "And I think you will find that many of your fellow students are not as readily convinced, either."

"You'd be surprised at how many are," the boy said, not without a hint of a smirk. "Not everyone believes in your live-and-let-them-kill-us-politics."

"Misquoted like that, no, I would not think so."

"Everyone's got to believe in something – pick a side. Just don't be surprised if yours comes up short in the end," said Rabastan.

"I sincerely hope you are wrong about that."

But he was far from convinced.

Suddenly, the door opened and Pomona's voice cut through the room.

"I'm sorry, Albus. But these two insist on seeing you."

Rabastan looked up expectantly and turned towards the door, and Albus instantly knew what was going on. It was not the first time his discussions with students linked to the Slytherin gang were interrupted, usually by students who just as likely were tied to the group but not to the offence currently being discussed. Tonight it had taken longer than usual, however. He was not sure exactly how they communicated, but had his suspicions that a Protean Charm was involved.

Forcibly sidestepping Pomona, who seemed reluctant to open the door wider, was Bellatrix Black, confirming Albus' suspicions on the current chain of command in the group. Tall and regal already at seventeen, she carried herself with the natural confidence and assuredness he had often seen in her far older relatives. Both beautiful and fiercely intelligent, Bellatrix held a secure position as Horace's absolute favourite student and had a record of wrongdoing that would have been far longer had it not been for her indulgent Head of House. She was no doubt used to and expected such treatment, and it was usually granted. But this time she wasn't alone. Right behind her stood the man Albus least of all wanted in the room at the moment but who had been the topic of conversation for almost an hour now.

Rodolphus Lestrange strode towards the desk, stopping right behind his brother who, despite his expectant look at the door, seemed greatly surprised to see him. The difference in appearance between the brothers was striking – not only were they built completely differently but they shared few features overall. If it hadn't been for the similar dark colouring and eyes, they would scarcely have looked related. Rodolphus was sturdier in all ways and had heavier and more pronounced features than his younger brother. His eyebrows were bushier, his hair was thicker and there was a strong angularity to him, accentuated by his broad shoulders. His considerable height paradoxically made him seem less sizable as it evened him out, though it could not cover that he was a large man. It did, however, cover the fact that he also was a very young one; he was only two years his brother's senior but to anyone unaware of this fact he looked far older. In school robes he had still looked his age but now, dressed in traditional robes, fur-trimmed winter cloak and with a carefully trimmed beard, he appeared at least a decade older. No doubt it was his carefully-crafted intention; in order to be taken seriously as a publisher and a politician, he could not look his age.

"Mr Lestrange," Albus greeted the younger man lightly, as though he did not mind the intrusion. "I thought the days of seeing you in my office were gone."

"For my own part, yes," came the swift reply in a voice that Albus noted seemed even darker and deeper than it used to. No doubt this was for the Wizengamot's benefit, when he and Evan Rosier made their rallying speeches.

"I see. And may I inquire as to how you find yourself in Scotland tonight? I believe you have been quite steadily London-based ever since leaving school."

"I happened to have business in Hogsmeade," Rodolphus replied smoothly, providing no further explanations.

"I see. And you certainly seem to still have good connections to the school, in order to have arrived here so swiftly," he added with a polite but knowing nod towards Bellatrix, whose cloak bore just as much of what he strongly suspected was the snow of the streets of Hogsmeade as did Rodolphus's. Neither she nor Rodolphus showed a shred of concern about the insinuation, but Rabastan reddened and discovered a newfound fascination with his shoes.

"I like to stay informed," Rodolphus said curtly.

"Indeed. But I have to say that I do not see why you needed to trouble yourself tonight. It is rather irregular for an outsider to be present when I speak with a student," he said in the same non-confrontational tone.

"I fail to see how I would fall into that category," Rodolphus countered. "I am, as you doubtlessly know, my brother's guardian."

"Indeed I am aware of that fact," Albus nodded. He had not been particularly surprised to receive a letter from Reynard informing him that guardianship duties for Rabastan had been transferred from his father to his older brother as soon as the latter had left school. It had merely made a de facto-situation official.

"Of course you may stay, if you wish to do so."

The younger man nodded curtly, the glint in his dark eyes, however, betraying a vindictive delight in having secured what he doubtlessly considered a strategic victory.

Momentarily admonishing himself for being petty, but concluding that whatever pettiness was involved served a higher purpose, Albus spoke again, turning his gaze from Rodolphus to his companion.

"I do however think that your presence, Miss Black, will not be needed for this conversation."

He was glad to have a reason – beyond merely wanting to shift the power in the room – to dismiss her. As little as he wished to have a discussion with Rodolphus on a topic that would certainly show him at his most fanatic, he wished even less for Bellatrix to be present during it. They would only egg each other on, giving Rabastan fresh arguments to use later.

Rodolphus scowled, but did not protest. As he turned towards Bellatrix, his brother pointedly turned his focus to the snow falling outside the window.

He briefly touched her hand with his, and they looked at each other for a moment, steadily enough to be trading silent thoughts. Then she looked away, gave his hand a brief stroke and left the room without a second glance at either Albus or Rabastan. The latter slowly turned back towards the room, carefully throwing a glance over his shoulder as if to check that the coast was clear.

"But, as I said, Mr Lestrange," Albus began once Bellatrix had left and slammed the door shut, "I do not think you need to concern yourself about tonight's events."

"I'll be the judge of that. And I cannot see why my brother, according to his otherwise unhelpful Head of House, has spent an hour with the Headmaster."

"He was summoned here to be reprimanded, as most students unfortunately are when I have the chance to meet them."

"And what has he done?" Rodolphus asked, as much of his brother as of Albus.

"Duelled Smith in the common room," Rabastan said before Albus could answer. Hearing the reason for why he had rushed up to the school, Rodolphus exasperatedly rolled his eyes.

"But he –" Rabastan began, clearly annoyed at his brother's reaction.

"Quiet," his brother said warningly, holding up a hand to silence Rabastan who grudgingly complied.

"Well," Rodolphus sighed, "illicit duelling hardly seems to require an hour-long reprimand. Is there not as good as a set scale of detention correlating to the injury caused?"

"Reprimanding my students is not all I do when I ask to speak to them, Mr Lestrange."

"And what else might you have felt the pressing need to speak with my teenaged brother about?" Rodolphus sneered in disbelief.

"You," Rabastan blurted out, shooting Albus a sly look indicating that he knew exactly what he was stirring up.

"Indeed," Rodolphus said, eyes narrowing. "I see. So you have not yet given up on your brainwashing speeches, Dumbledore."

"I would hardly call them that."

"No, of course not. And I suppose I am to believe that this is not merely an honour granted to those students you think are of the wrong opinions, but that you will have a similar session with Mr Smith?"

"Indeed I intend to speak to him, yes."

"Really? You are going to have an hour-long conversation with Mr Smith about the political opinions held by his relatives and how these opinions may or may not influence his actions in ways you disapprove? Forgive me for doubting you, Dumbledore," the man jeered, "but I find this highly unlikely. Would my brother have been sitting here for an hour, had I been advocating in favour of further sullying of our world instead of the opposite?" he continued. "Or would he then long ago have been allowed to return to spend his spare hours as he sees fit, without ideological monitoring?"

"You are painting a far darker picture of my doings than necessary, Rodolphus. As you tend to do, unfortunately," he added, gesturing to the Daily Prophet on the desk, once again including an article insinuating that his lax admission standards at Hogwarts was an attempt to wittingly destroy Britain's Wizarding culture.

"I'm sure," the younger man who had published the article retorted. "This is no doubt merely a friendly chat?"

"That would be far closer to the truth, yes."

"Indeed. And on equal footing, too. Impressive, I must say."

"Well, at least there is nothing sinister about it."

"No of course not - you merely expect a sixteen-year-old to defend himself to his Headmaster? Business as usual then, I see," he sneered.

"There is certainly no need for that," Albus said calmly. "We are merely having a conversation."

"Indeed. Then I should like to point out to you that, beyond informing your students of the repercussions of their actions, something I doubt can last an hour, not even with your long-windedness, you have authorisation here. It is not your place to raise your students as you see fit. That responsibility lies with their families!"

Before Albus could respond, Rodolphus continued, his voice reaching closer to the rhetorical frenzy he was well-known for by now.

"You cannot use the school as a recruiting ground for your ideology, Dumbledore!"

"I find it ironic that someone such as yourself would argue that," Albus replied calmly but firmly.

"I see members of your staff trying to influence the students as quite a different thing from conversations between students. And I do hope you still let your students enjoy the right to voice their opinions," the younger man continued unperturbed, "even though tonight does seem to disprove that notion."

"As I have already told your brother, I will never outlaw civilised discussion under my roof."

"Indeed. So the reason that my brother has spent far too long here, listening to your preaching, is not that he, according to your own personal preferences, has voiced incorrect thoughts?"

"No, it is not. I have merely expressed a concern with how well-versed he really is in the teachings he appears to support."

"Which is not your place. You would do very well to leave my brother's well-being and moral education to me. Rest assured that I intend to teach him well," he added in a vaguely ominous tone.

"I certainly hope so," Albus conceded with a sigh, rising from his chair to indicate that the conversation was over. It did no one any favours to continue this argument any further - it would merely give the man more material to feed his brother.

Rabastan hurried to rise and began walking towards the door, throwing Albus a questioning look.

"Two months' detention, Mr Lestrange," Albus reminded him. "You will be in Mr Filch's office at six tomorrow night." The boy scowled but nodded, disappearing through the door and out of sight.

"This is not over, Dumbledore," Rodolphus said warningly as he turned to follow his brother. "I will make sure that you do not overstep your boundaries in the future."

"I would expect no less from you, Rodolphus," Albus said calmly, making a mental note to leave time for the influx of appalled owls from pure-blood parents that no doubt would show up at his window the following morning.

He extended his hand to his former student. With a snort, Rodolphus shook it.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**:.... it took a fair bit longer than expected, this. My only excuse is that I at one point was almost done - only to realise I was writing something that disregarded the first part of this entirely. Not too awesome, that. Might still make something out of that, and a third part of this IS coming - hopefully not in another 9 months.

Thanks to _celta_diabolica_ for being an awesome beta and awesome in general!

**Indoctrination: Part II**

"Thanks for coming," Rabastan said earnestly, waiting for his brother in the corridor below Dumbledore's office. "I didn't realise you were here."

"'s all right," Rodolphus said bracingly, stepping past the Gargoyles. "As I said, I happened to have business in the area."

"I'm sure," Rabastan grinned. As long as he didn't have to either see or hear it, he had nothing in particular against this 'business' that his brother had had with Bellatrix for the past few years – even though it had taken some getting used to.

"Business that I intend to return to," his brother added with a smirk as they walked down the first staircase towards the entrance hall, "so try and keep it together until the holidays at least, will you? Or," he added, "at least show some finesse. Duelling in the common room, I ask you…" he sighed, shaking his head with the air of someone teaching a craft to an amateur. "Not even Slughorn could have protected you from that."

"But Smith kicked me off the team!" Rabastan defended himself furiously, having wanted to do so ever since his brother had dismissed his reasoning the first time around.

"So put Wormwood in his soup. Or lock his broomstick in the Room of Requirement. Anything that requires at least some semblance of a thought process."

"I _was_ thinking!"

"Not enough, clearly," his brother said firmly in his strictest and therefore most annoying I-intend-to-raise-you voice.

"You need to learn these things, Rab," he continued, still rather preachy. "You can't be so bloody obvious about it. It will only get you back up there without having accomplished anything."

"Yeah, yeah," Rabastan snapped, feeling like he'd had enough lessons for the night. "I got it!"

"Then start showing it."

They walked the last steps in stubborn silence, like so many times before after similar exchanges.

"Wormwood, eh?" Rabastan finally said when they reached the entrance hall.

"Has curious side effects when paired with most common soup bases." His brother nodded with a wry grin, as though recalling a fond memory. "Don't let him bully you," Rodolphus then said in a more serious voice, nodding upwards. "I thought he wouldn't have a go at you since you're not in Slytherin, but clearly you've made yourself enough of a name for him to take note," he added approvingly.

"He's tried this with others?

"Sure – you're not that special, Rab," Rodolphus said, amused. "He was all over me for seven years, going on about 'the influences I was letting myself fall prey to'", he quoted with a sneer.

"Rosier got it too, and Wilkes."

"You never said," Rabastan remarked, trying not to sound too accusatory but still annoyed that after all this time he still didn't seem to be trusted and was being treated like a kid.

"You didn't need to know," the calm and almost offhand reply predictably came. It sounded dangerously close to being said in Rodolphus's I'm-the-adult voice, but Rabastan chose to let it slide. This time.

"Anyone who has a parent or relative amongst Dumbledore's political enemies will be summoned sooner or later. He tries to smooth it over of course, but I know better. You'd think someone who prides himself on _being politically correct_" (as usual, Rodolphus snorted the words) – "would be less obvious about his own….shortcomings. Which of course he never has been. But it won't work forever," he added darkly.

"I told him that!" Rabastan agreed heatedly, not really caring about what his brother was going to do about Dumbledore as the feeling of great injustice and fury overwhelmed him again. "He lets the Gryffindors off for anything, and they're so smug about it! You should hear the stuff the Prewetts say about you," he added, wishing he had sent Fabian Prewett to the hospital wing along with Smith.

"I don't care what some bleeding-heart Gryffindor thinks," his brother scoffed.

"I do," Rabastan muttered through clenched teeth, staring sideways at nothing in particular. And he did care about what they said. In fact, it made him murderous.

"Well you shouldn't," Rodolphus said strictly, studying him intently. "There are far bigger things in the world. And," he added in a softer tone, "I know I'm not making it easy for you. But you simply have to learn how to deal with it, control it – if you don't, you'll never be able to actually do anything worthwhile. If I let every single thing in this world that makes me nauseous get to me, I wouldn't have time for anything else."

"I guess."

"You'd be right to do so," Rodolphus nodded. "Trust me, Rab – I know," he continued. "But it gets better once you get out of this place."

"That's comforting," Rabastan snorted, thinking of the almost two long years he had ahead of him.

"Well, yes. And _no_," Rodolphus said in a firmer voice. "I'm not letting you skip a year! But," he continued, reverting to the slight smirk, "things might start to look up at some point."

The scowl on his face replaced by keen interest, Rabastan looked up.

"Like what?"

"Not my place," his brother smirked. "Just… keep up with the news."

"Like you'd print it," Rabastan laughed. Only a small part of what actually happened made it into the Prophet these days, and it still amused him that so few seemed to notice this ("Tell people what they want to hear," his brother had explained wryly, "and they will never miss the rest until it's knocking on their front door.")

"_Listen _to them. For once, I'd recommend Lovegood."

"You want me to listen to _Lovegood_?" Rabastan asked, seriously laughing now. Why the WWN humoured that nutter by letting his weekly news commentary _The Xenophone_ stay on air he didn't know, nor did he know why anyone took seriously Lovegood, his Snorkacks and pathetic threats to one day challenge the truth in the publishing industry.

"Indeed I do," his brother chuckled. "He does tend to – unwittingly, I'm sure – strike gold every once in a while."

"I'll take your word for it," Rabastan said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"It usually serves you well to do that," Rodolphus said, still smirking.

"I guess," Rabastan replied, growing distant instead of falling into his brother's smirk. A completely different thought had struck him now, inspired by the Christmas decorations that had recently been hung around the castle. Christmas – it would mean going home, but to what exactly?

"Is he coming home for Christmas?" he asked, all thoughts of Lovegood and the Dark Lord momentarily postponed. He tried to remember where in the world Reynard might be, but ended up torn between Malawi and Argentina.

"Not that I know of," his brother said lightly.

"Right," Rabastan nodded, not really knowing if he was disappointed or not. He didn't really think he was. "Where is he anyway?"

"Bangladesh, last I spoke with him."

"Oh," Rabastan said, surprised. "Wasn't it Argentina?"

His brother shrugged. "Possibly. My interest in the migration patterns of tea is very limited."

Foggily, Rabastan began to recall something about Turkey too, and chose to disregard the matter entirely. It seemed far simpler that way.

"But yes, Christmas," Rodolphus said thoughtfully, as though the nearing holiday came as a surprise to him. "We can go to the Rosiers, if you like," he offered.

They had gone to the Rosiers the year before too, that time because Reynard had had to admit defeat and accept that he was unable to conjure a Christmas dinner without a House-elf. Regardless of this he had refused to let go of his insistence to not have one ("it might be a fascinating experiment, don't you think?"). Neither Rodolphus nor Rabastan thought so, but had soon learnt that it mattered very little – once the line of elves in a household was broken it was difficult to come by another, especially if you were not the owner of the house in question, and it appeared that until Reynard signed over the rest of his responsibilities on Rodolphus, they would have to do without. And as that meant either leaning on the Rosiers or starving, Rabastan readily chose the Rosiers.

"Sure."

Rodolphus nodded. "And the Blacks have their soirée on Christmas Eve."

"In Wiltshire?" Rabastan asked hopefully.

"No, in London."

Rabastan groaned, and his brother gave him another strict look.

"Grimmauld Place is very respectable house."

"And really mouldy," Rabastan retorted. "Honestly," he laughed at the look his brother shot him – "do _you_ like listening to his tirades?" He could think of nicer things to do on Christmas Eve than listening to Orion Black going on about his family's ancient roots in his monotonous voice, not overly subtly hinting at the drawbacks of one having Norman blood.

Rodolphus smirked.

"Selective listening where the Black family tree is concerned is a key to dealing with the Black family."

"You would know." They all did, but given the amount of time Rodolphus spent with Bellatrix he was bound to know the Black family tree backwards by now even if he'd stopped listening years ago.

A bell chimed more times than Rabastan cared to count somewhere in the castle, and Rodolphus – who seemed to have been counting – put on his hat, readying himself to leave. Clearly, their unexpected time was coming to an end.

With a sigh, Rabastan's eyes travelled towards the door leading down to the Hufflepuff common room, where he supposed he ought to be going when Rodolphus left. Brilliant. If he was really lucky, Smith would already be back and would have turned the whole house against him even more than before. Malawi-Argentina-Bangladesh-Turkey and the migration patterns of tea suddenly seemed appealing, even if it would mean listening to his father's erratic musings on how wizards and plants actually had a lot more in common than most people ("any sane person") might think ("well, we certainly have weeds amongst us," Rodolphus would add under his breath.)

"Are you in the village?" Rabastan asked, knowing the answer before his brother nodded affirmatively. "Can I come? Not now, obviously," he added, horrified at the thought of being in the same house as Rodolphus and Bellatrix at night any more than he needed to be - "but later?"

The smirk that still had been playing on his brother's face softened. "I'm going back to London first thing tomorrow morning," Rodolphus said apologetically.

"Right," Rabastan sighed, trying not to betray too much disappointment or jealously that the one Rodolphus chose to see on his rare trips north was Bellatrix, not him – unless it was to save him from brainwashing.

"I'm sorry, Rab. But I'm rather tied up right now."

Rabastan nodded, again swallowing the burning desire to once again ask what it was that would be happening soon (he tried to keep himself from thinking that Bellatrix undoubtedly knew). But the middle of the entrance hall wasn't the setting for it.

"And I really have to go," Rodolphus sighed. "I'm sorry, but I do."

"Yeah, I know," Rabastan nodded, feeling childish for trying to hold him back or run away with him. But he couldn't help it.

"She's going to kill you," he added with a brave grin, shoving away the angst for a moment and preferring to think of what undoubtedly would be Bellatrix' reaction to her rather long wait in the village.

Rodolphus chuckled.

"I have my ways of making her want to reconsider that," he said suggestively, making Rabastan groan.

"Thanks for that image," he shuddered. If it were anyone else it might have been a fascinating topic, but even without hearing any further details he could barely see Bellatrix without reflexively hearing the nightly sounds that had had a habit of leaking out of his brother's bedroom the past summers replayed in his head.

"Anytime," Rodolphus continued mercilessly, chuckling at the look on Rabastan's face. Clearly, he had too few opportunities to torture people these days.

"Didn't you have somewhere to be just now?" Rabastan whined, grimacing. As little as he liked the idea of facing a common room of angry Hufflepuffs, listening to this was even less appealing.

"Most certainly do, yes."

"Then go on, and stop harassing me!"

"Will do," his brother said importantly. "Just try and keep it together?"

"Will do," Rabastan parroted, grinning.

He had only just turned around to bitterly face the entrance to the common room, seriously contemplating crossing the hall to the Slytherin dungeons instead and making Malfoy let him in to kip on a couch, when an arm grabbed him around the neck and he felt himself lifted off the floor and spun around.

"Hey! Geroff!"

He tugged furiously at his brother's arm, not wanting to be spun around like a kid when just about anyone (especially starting with "Alexandra" and ending in "Yaxley") could walk by and see it, but soon fell into his brother's roaring laughter. He hadn't heard it in a while and could appreciate the fact that even though Rodolphus seemed set on aging two decades in two years and generally becoming even more serious than before, he had some sense of humour left.

"Maniac," he gasped, grinning, once he stood steadily on the ground again, rubbing his neck.

"Lightweight," Rodolphus shot back, chuckling as he put his hat back on (Rabastan had managed to swat it off) and composed himself into becoming Rodolphus Lestrange, Head of Lestrange Publications and Deputy Member of the Wizengamot again. He gave Rabastan a final nod and then turned to leave, for real this time.

"How much Wormwood?" Rabastan called after him on a whim, still grinning.

"Three ounces to a normal bowl," his brother shot back over his shoulder. "Fifth drawer from the left in Slughorn's cabinet. If possible, nick it over a period of time; he's less likely to notice it that way."


End file.
